Hodor's Little Habit
by Requiescat in Pace il Ti Amor
Summary: Hodor is the simpleton that no one really pays too much mind. He's kind, and helpful, and he does what he's told. Little do the inhabitants of Winterfell know, their humble little giant has a harmless little secret.


As they always had and always would, the shadows that cloaked the halls of Winterfell seemed to crowd the simpleton as he shuffled through the halls. He had to duck his head slightly to keep from scraping it on the ceiling—a small annoyance.

"Hello, Hodor," a passing servant said. The stable boy nodded in response, muttering his name to the girl.

The castle frightened Hodor; he didn't like cramped spaces. He was tall, too tall for the castle. Too tall for a lot of things. Too tall to ride the horses he so admired. Too tall for people to ignore. Most times, he stayed with the little lord in his room, but Bran had dismissed him for the evening.

When he'd left Bran's room, Hodor had intended to go straight to the stables where his own room awaited him, but he'd become distracted. There weren't many things that could distract him from a task, but the objects of his fancy were an exception.

Coins, little buttons, broken pieces of bottles or silverware, anything shiny, really. They fascinated Hodor. The more textures on the object, the better. He liked to take the pieces and press them to his lips. His fingers weren't so good for feeling, as big and meaty as they were. His lips could feel the divots and pits in the metal coins, the holes for the needles in the buttons. Occasionally, he would touch is tongue to the object, to taste it, to know it. His favorite by far were small, rounded metal balls Maester Luwin used as paperweights. The smoothness of their surface and the metallic taste intrigued the simpleton, gave his mind something to ponder. How did the smithies get the metal so smooth?

"Ah, Hodor," a familiar, deep voice said. "Just the man I was looking for." Robb Stark reached up and patted Hodor's shoulder. The taller male flinched at the gesture, but Robb took no offense. "How fares Bran?"

Hodor glanced at Rob, then looked back down at his hands. He closed them tightly and held them close to his chest, tucking his arms to his torso. "H-Hodor," he stammered.

Robb frowned at this. "Yes, you are Hodor," he said uncertainly. "Is Bran in his room?"

"Hodor," the stable boy said with a nod, hoping Robb would understand.

Chuckling, Robb smiled at the taller boy. "A strange one, you are," he said. "Thank you, Hodor. You've been a great help." He clapped Hodor on the shoulder once more before stepping around him and continuing down the hallway.

Breathing a sigh of relief, Hodor shambled forward quickly, his worn shoes making soft shuffling sounds against the cold stone of the hallway. When he finally reached the castle doors, the guards inside and out nodded to him, but made no move to stop him. No one would question the motives of a simpleton. No one would stop and question Hodor. He was utterly trustworthy.

The stables were his home. Hodor felt comfortable amongst the great, snorting beasts. The horses didn't give him strange looks when he whispered his name to them. They didn't ask him confusing questions or make demands of him that he couldn't comply to. The horses were his friends, even if they were a little smelly.

"Hodor," he said fondly to the stable beside his. He had made a room out of one of the stables with a small table and chair in the back corner and a pile of soft straw on the floor for a bed. An oil lantern hung from the post to the right of the entrance, and most nights he would keep it on. Of course, he only slept out here during the summer and spring. It was much too cold during the winter.

The chestnut stallion in the stable beside Hodor's shifted in its stall and reached its head out past the gate. Fuzzy lips nibbled at Hodor's ear, and with a giggle, the stable boy reached into a pouch at his belt and held a hand out to the stallion. Those fuzzy lips and gentle teeth ate up the dried, sweetened figs Hodor was able to take from the kitchen, and he patted the great, dark cheek of the animal before turning into his own stable.

Kneeling down, Hodor swept a bit of hay and dirt aside to reveal the wooden box he'd buried just under the edge of his bed. He opened the lid, but left the box where it lay snug in the earth. It had remained there since he'd moved into the stable, and he didn't want to move it. Not ever. It was perfectly happy where it was, just like he was. "Hodor," he muttered as he opened his other hand. in his palm lay a shiny, silver coin. He had no way of knowing its value; all he knew was that he liked the way it looked in the light of a candle.

Silently, Hodor slipped the coin into the box amongst the various other objects he'd managed to collect over the years. He didn't steal, not really. He just took what wouldn't be missed. It wasn't malicious, the way he did it. If he found something he liked, he would pick it up and touch it to his lips. Oft times, he forgot he even had it in his hands when he returned to his stable. This time, though, he felt awful about his inability not to take this coin. He'd taken it from the little lord. From Bran. Bran, who had been nothing but nice to him. Bran, who had taken him as he was und been understanding and kind. Yet he couldn't _not_ take it. And for that, he wanted to apologize.


End file.
